


if you like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain

by flappergirlsfolly



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/M, Fluff, Post BotFA, Teenaged crushes, really that's all it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 05:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3678576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flappergirlsfolly/pseuds/flappergirlsfolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>if you're not into yoga, if you have half a brain</p><p> </p><p>5 times Sigrid and Fíli have rainy conversations, and the one time they didn't really need to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy- please let me know what you think! This was one of those awful fics that blossomed around a perfect scene that just strolled, fully formed into my head, but didn't actually fit in with the final plot.

1.

 

Having looked after his little brother for so many years, been attached to each other’s sides since before he could walk, Fíli felt a little lost when, having been saved from a slow and painful death, Kíli began to babble incomprehensible poetry at an elf.

Yes, he had certainly expected his brother to settle down with a nice lass one day. Even though Fíli was the handsome one (whatever Gimli said, Fíli determinedly maintained this to be the case), Kíli had so much spirit bubbling underneath his short beard and muddy hair. He had known that that would attract a dam, ever since Kíli was just a kid, waddling around on stubby toddler’s legs.

But an elf.

An elf.

An elf who had his brother waxing poetically about stars and moonlight. Even for impossible, incredible, boundary pushing Kíli, that was something else.

Deciding to leave them to it, the lack of reason had left him flailing, and for want of something to do, he’d resigned himself to dragging the bodies of dead orcs outside. Heavy, cumbersome things they were, leaving trails of black blood across the scuffed wooden floors.

Outside, Laketown was still, night blackening around him as with a final lug, the body slithered over the railing and into the canal with a muffled ‘plop’. Around him, the air was filled with thousands of tiny beads of water, illuminated by the chinks in curtains and light from beneath doors, shining silver with the moon. Bracing his hands on the bannister, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to still the quaking in his fingers. The clean feeling of the rain that he enjoyed helped to soothe his thundering heart a little, and clear his head of the fog it had gone into when Tauriel stepped into Bard’s kitchen instead of Bofur. Kíli’s face had never been that pale for as long as Fíli had seen it, almost like he had already passed into the halls of their ancestors, leaving Fíli alone--

He was startled out of his contemplation by the door bashing open, and a labored grunt.

It was Bard’s eldest daughter, the kind one who’d offered him a clean shirt, almost doubled over as she dragged the final body over the threshold.

“What are you doing? That’s heavy. Let me.”

“It’s alright.” She wheezed. “I’ve got it.”

Rolling his eyes, he leaned down and took an arm, helping her to hoist the cadaver into the water. With a relieved sigh, she collapsed against the railing, massaging her wrist.

“Tilda wasn’t dealing with it too well. The body.”

“Is she alright?”

The girl couldn’t have been more six, and heaven knows that when he was her age (or the equivalent thereof) he would have been crying on the floor having experienced such fear as a band of orcs bursting into his home and trying to murder him. Sigrid bowed her head, picking at the fraying hem of her shawl, before meeting his gaze and realeasing her lip from between her teeth.

“She’s a brave girl. The bravest I ever knew. She’ll be fine.” She paused, teetering on her heels, before adding quickly. “Thanks to you, as well.”

“Hm?”

“You…” she seemed to come to an abrupt halt, before beginning again. “For protecting us. Thank you.”

He shrugged noncommittally, and smiled in acceptance, but did not miss the befuddlement in her expression. Rain was beading softly in her hair, crowning the light frizz that escaped the knot at the back of her head like a halo.

“Tis the way of the dwarves. To defend those who are unable to defend themselves.”

“I- but- it- but- but you didn’t even have a weapon! You’re telling me you would fling yourself in front of a blade for two people you barely know?”

“Apparently.” He shrugged. Would her people not do the same? Surely, she shouldn’t be so surprised. Even if it were so uncommon amongst the folk of men to defend their innocent, it was something a girl her age ought to believe in. Something that should be cherished within her for as long as possible. “But, I, erm, thank you for your gratitude.”

“You’re not meant to thank me, I’m supposed to be thanking you.”

“You do enjoy making this difficult, don’t you?”

“You’re making it difficult. I’m only trying to be nice.”

He let out a snort of a laugh, and their conversation died down to a slow silence. Glancing back at the peephole in her front door, she cocked her head.

“Were you expecting the Lady Tauriel?”

“Can’t say I was.”

She eyed him in vague amusement, having heard the dissatisfaction in his voice, and bit her lip again, flooding it with colour.

“I think it’s adorable. How in love they are.”

At his stern grunt, she giggled softly and turned back to the door.

“A cup of tea would do you the world of good, I think. Come back in when you’re interested in defrosting yourself.”

The door snapped shut behind her, and he looked after it curiously, before wrapping his fingers around the damp wood again and returning to his contemplation.

 

2.

 

The snow that had been falling during the battle had been and gone in a week, according to Óin, and had been replaced by a gentle patter of rain.

Corners of his tent were leaking, water dripping in with a steady, monotonous rhythm. He was glad to be reasonably dry and quite warm, but as what remained of the company and Dáin’s armies set about rebuilding Erebor, Fíli wanted nothing more than to be helping them.

He’d tried to get out of bed in the morning, but Óin and Bofur had tackled him back onto the mattress, Bofur holding him down while Óin re bandaged his aching ribs. Privately, of course, Fíli’s injured head was still throbbing from the exertion.

And to add to his restlessness, he still hadn’t seen Kíli since the battle (though he’d be allowed to soon, when he woke up and Tauriel could be moved from his side). Thorin had limped in a few days ago and clapped him on the shoulder, before collapsing into a chair from the exertion, with Bilbo berating him for over working himself. Gaunt, weak and wounded, the line of Durin would probably never truly recover from the humiliation of reclaiming their home, only to have others labour to bring it back to its former glory.

He was so caught up in these gloomy reflections that he jumped when the door flap was flung open and somebody ducked inside. He didn’t recognise her for a moment, but as she unshed her bulky coat (a man’s garment, unmistakably) and shawl the familiar tall figure turned to face him.

“Sigrid?” he asked, a little bewildered, but nonetheless pleased. He barely knew the girl, though he was a fond of her, and her older-sibling practicality that he recognised in himself. “What are you-“

“Don’t you ever do that again!” she snapped, storming across the length of the tent and making to hug him, but spotted his bandages, faltered, and instead threw herself down in Ori’s chair with a petulant pout.

“Do what?”

“Get yourself injured like that. It was rather rude.”

“Rude? It wasn’t last week that you were lamenting my courage for defending you and your sister.”

“Last week? Last month.”

“Ah. Sorry. I’m a bit out of it-“

“And that then and this now are totally different. When you looked after us, you were defending us, and didn’t go and nearly die. This was a mindless bloody slaughter that you’re lucky to come out of alive, and ended with you flittering in and out of consciousness for a month.”

“I was defending-“

“Your family. Yes. You told me when you were less sensible. And while that’s perfectly admirable, you’re lucky to be here. Gave me no end of a fright.”

She shoveled some damp blonde hair furiously out of her eyes, and averted her gaze from his.

Feeling a little bemused at having been berated so, he fumbled for something to say.

“What do you mean I told you? You were here?”

“I- well, yes. I was worried about you, and nobody was telling me anything, so I came down here to ask somebody and ended up being your nurse for a few days.”

“O-oh.”

“I don’t care if you think it’s creepy. Óin was run off his feet and Bifur had no idea what he was doing. It was more for their good than yours.”

“Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.”

He was unprepared for the gentle hand that she pressed against his forehead, however, or the way she straightened Óin’s hasty bandaging with cold, damp fingers.

“There. Now I’ve got that off my chest, you can help me with this. The elderly need things to keep them warm, and apparently knitting them clothes is all I’m good for.”

“As Lady of Dale?”

“Or as Sigrid.” She muttered, shaking her head and tugging a skein of yarn from her basket, wrapping the end around his waiting hands.

They sat in silence for a while, her winding, him listening to the patter of rain outside and her humming softly under her breath. There was nothing really special about the scene, no great, earthshattering moments. It was simple and quiet and easy, but Fíli felt like he was floating on a cloud.

It was something that, as a child growing up to be prince, he’d never envisioned he would have. Whenever he pictured his future, it was on a battlefield, or amongst royal ledgers, or standing beside Thorin as he sat the throne. He’d entertained the idea of settling down with a nice lad or lass somewhere in the back of his mind, but always as his royal consort. Despite the way colour flushed in her cheeks whenever their eyes met, he hardly expected to marry Sigrid, the green girl she was. But after the terror filled moments on Ravehill, being hoisted off his feet over the precipice of the fortress, with the knowledge in his would-be final moments that Kíli and Thorin and Bilbo weren’t safe, the little piece of something so simple, safe, and domestic was warming.

“I didn’t mean to snap at you.” She murmured, after a long while “Well, I did. But I should have asked if you were alright, first.”

“I’m fine.”

“If you say so.”

They lapsed into silence again, but after a few flustered attempts that left her frustrated and troubled, she spoke again.

“If you need a friend. What little I saw of the battle- well, it wasn’t little. But I wasn’t in the thick of it. Erm, I know it must have been horrible. Maybe you still find it a bit- or quite- awful. But if you need a friend to talk to about anything. Yes. Erm, I’m just in Dale.”

It was too forward, for their people, and he found himself quite flustered, colouring and tucking his chin into his chest. Uncomfortable as it was, she was trying to be kind, kind to somebody she barely knew because he did what any good dwarf would do, once, in a tiny kitchen that didn’t exist any more.

“I’d squeeze your hand.” He muttered gruffly, jostling his wool wrapped hands. “That’s how we…”

“Alright.” She whispered gently, eyes fixed on the burgeoning ball of wool in her fingers.

They didn’t talk again until it was time to say goodbye.

 

3.

 

“Your majesties? Lord Bard and his daughter have arrived.”

Thorin let out a low, displeased growl, and bore down on the timid messenger until Fíli placed a calming hand on his shoulder.

“Has anybody seen my nephew and his betrothed?”

“N-no, your majesty.”

Scurrying out at his dismissal, the messenger left Fíli and Thorin alone with Balin.

“Perhaps Sigrid can join the meeting? From what I recall, she’s a clever girl.” Balin supplied.

“She’s not the Lord of Dale.” Thorin snapped, in response. “The meeting is supposed to be between the King of Erebor and the Lord of Dale.”

“Well we can’t very well stick her in the corner and let her amuse herself for a few hours.” Fíli reasoned.

“Indeed. You’ll have to stay with her.”

“Me? What? I don’t know how to-“

“Well Kíli and his elf aren’t here to keep her company as they were supposed to. You’ll just have to sit this meeting out.”

“But-“

He was interrupted by the door opening and Bard and Sigrid stepping inside.

“Lord Bard and his daughter, the Lady Sigrid of Dale.”

She had certainly matured some, in the years since she had come to his tent, growing out of the young girl who’d harboured a crush on him. The sharp planes and gentle curves of her tanned face were more dainty, having evened out with age, and her figure had-- not to mention that she seemed to carry herself with a more authoritative air, despite the dampness of her fringe and the wet hem of her dress. He supposed it must be raining outside.

General introductions and pleasantries were exchanged, until Bard and Thorin were seated at the table to begin their annual trade negotiations, and Fíli had led Sigrid to sofas facing each other beside the fire, mostly so she could dry a little.

“You’ve changed.” He said finally, to break the deafening silence.

“You haven’t.” She replied, smiling gently.

“You’re a bit regal now.”

“Hah. Your lot think I look like a commoner.”

She seemed to have forgone the elegant draperies of some of the women of the courts and instead favoured a slim silhouetted gown with well fitting sleeves that brushed dainty wrists. For the mossy green colour of the poplin and the grey woolen folds of her shawl, she might have simply stepped out of Laketown all those years ago. But the little, dark pink roses that crept up the hem of her dress, and the matching green flecks in her shawl marked her as nobility.

Practical nobility, more precisely.

“You look pleasant.” He said finally, after a brief struggle.

“My thanks.”

What little conversation they had had in the past did not flow evenly then, and it did not do so now. For half a moment, he stopped being the crown prince of Erebor, and was an adolescent dwarrow, stumbling over his tongue and blushing whenever somebody glanced at him sideways.

It unnerved him a little.

“Do you enjoy your new status?” he asked, after listening to the rise and fall of Thorin and Bard tearing into each other behind barely maintained polite pleasantries.

“I still cook and do some chores for my family.” She replied, after a long moment. “Though I’m not supposed to tell people that. It all feels like a big mess of suitors and etiquette lessons and needlepoint.”

“Suitors? Eurgh, really?”

“Hm.”

“I bet you’re beating them off with your knitting needles.”

“Mistress Anstruther says that needlework is for commoners.” She parroted, pursing her lips and uttering the final word in what he supposed was an impression on an insufferable teacher. “But needlepoint is so fiddly and fine. It looks pretty, but nothing useful can be made from it.”

“You can embroider favours to give to all your suitors.” He teased. She scoffed and poked her tongue out at him. Clearly Mistress Anstruther hadn’t entirely wrung the Laketwon girl out of Sigrid.

“Fat chance of that. I’ll just titter at their request and flick my fan at them instead.”

“Titter at them?”

“You don’t know about that? It’s awful. Ernest laughter is too vulgar for high society, apparently, so all amusement must be carefully regulated.”

“I don’t think dams do that.” He reflected doubtfully, recalling his Ma high up on a dining hall table at Ered Luin, breathless with laughter and clutching a tankard loosely in her fingers.

“The old hag has had me practicing for months. Say something funny.”

He floundered for a moment, before leaning forward and meeting her eye soberly.

“Dwalin is afraid of kittens.”

In response, she let out a practiced, breathless little giggle that he might not have known was false, had she not prefaced it.

“That’s not-“ he objected, and attempted it for himself. All that came out of his throat was a high-pitched screech, disturbingly reminiscent of a small, villainous goblin creature.

She stared at him impassively for a long moment, before the smile that worked its way to her face matched the mirth in her eyes, and she let out a low cackle. Her laughter proved infectious, and by the time they had straightened up and wiped away their tears of joy, the ice had cracked.

They talked for a long while, of their siblings and their childhoods and favourite food and knitting and metal work. As the light from the thin windows grew dimmer, her hair began to glow golden in the light of the fire, curling softly around her cheekbones as it dried.

As if he had drawn attention to it with his thoughts, she winced and removed a pin that had stuck her, and moved to let it down. Startled, he made a spectacular sort of coughing noise that he wasn’t aware could come from his throat. Eyeing him strangely, she lowered her hand and began fiddling with the white lace protruding from her cuff.

“I’m sorry.” He said after a moment. “But you shouldn’t do that here.”

“Why ever not?”

“For dwarves, hair is… well, if you let your hair out in public like that, it would be like… me taking off my boots in front of you.”

When she continued to stare uncomprehendingly, he shook his head and forged on, unsure of how else to fill the silence but by rambling.

“Hair can be worn down, but never put so in public. To do so is to expose oneself indecently.”

“Oh. As if a man were to remove his shirt while laboring in a town. Permissible in the country, but now a crowded city.”

“Really? Men can’t- well, I suppose that’s a translation, yes.”

“Hmm.” She did not shift her gaze, and he almost began to squirm in discomfort, until she spoke again. “Why do dwarves braid their hair so intricately? Does it have a special meaning?”

“Not exactly. Certain braids don’t correlate to anything in particular. A dwarrow can style their hair as ornately or simply as they choose, but not to braid their hair at all shows little regard for their self worth or pride. If someone was removed from their family line, their hair would probably remain unbraided, for the atrocity they had committed.”

“Really?”

“That’s why we have such pride in our braids. Of course, Kíli was simply lazy, rather than without pride, but now that he’s betrothed, he takes more care of his hair. Or rather, Tauriel does.”

“Do people special to the dwarrow braid their hair?” she asked, with a frown.

“It is a sign of great devotion from a friend or family or lover to share such an… intimate act.” He felt himself flush slightly. Even talking about this with Sigrid was scandalous, pretty as she may--but as she was otherwise uneducated, he supposed there was no real harm in it. Besides, she seemed almost enraptured, and it made him glow a little to think that she was so taken by his words, for all the trouble he usually had in forming them. “But those who tend to their own braids show great pride in themselves.”

“And if a human were to braid their hair…?”

Something quivered in the bottom of his stomach, and he felt himself smirking.

“Dwarrows would know that humans do not assign the same meaning to their braids.” He admitted. When she seemed the tiniest bit put out, he continued, falteringly. “Unless, of course, a dwarf knew why she was doing it. Then he would… respect and… admire her greatly.”

In the flickering light of the fire, she positively glowed.

 

 

4.

 

The next time he saw her, he nearly forgot how to breathe.

Kíli and Tauriel’s wedding had finally come around in the height of summer. (Thank Mahal, because if Fíli had to help his brother sneak out of Tauriel’s chambers and back to his own halls when their mother was on the prowl, he might just cry) Typically, dwarves never dwelt much on the heat. The mountain was always cool when it was scorching outside, and being a forge-dwelling race, they didn’t mind hot summer days anyway. But Tauriel was eager to have her wedding in the light of the stars, so rather than allowing the pair to be married in the grand hall, Thorin and Dís threw open the gates and tidied up the entrance hall.

The guests, having been drawn in from all corners of Middle Earth, seemed to wilt in relief in the cool of the mountain, beneath the hundreds of hanging lanterns dangling from the ceiling, and the blissful smiles of the newlyweds.

The ceremony had been a private, family affair, attended by Thorin, Dís, Bilbo and himself, while Prince Legolas pretended not to tear up proudly beside him. But the feast following was the grandest that had been held in Erebor’s halls since before the dragon. Dwarves from all the seven families were there, high elves floating amongst them like beanpoles (and uncle’s lip not curling at the sight of them in his home was truly something to behold) and a few of the kingdoms of men--

In truth, she wasn’t necessarily beautiful. She was tall and slender, and her cheeks were smooth and hairless, but her eyes glinted like a thundering sky and the happy smile she shared with Tauriel seemed to illuminate the cavernous room. But her hair. A braid was coiled around her head like a crown, the rest golden brown curls that tumbled over her shoulders and brushed against the blue silk of her gown. From human to dwarf, the pure exquisiteness translated seamlessly. And when she turned to him with that fond smile she had bestowed upon him that day by the fireplace, it took Kíli pinching his elbow to remember that he was supposed to speak.

“Lady Sigrid. It’s wonderful to see you again.”

If she noticed how he sounded like a breathy child, she didn’t say anything, simply granted him a curtsey and a murmured “you too, Fíli” before she followed her family away. The icy blue silk billowed off her frame like tumbling water, trailing after her as she steered herself with authority through the crowd.

“Sweet Mahal...” he muttered to himself. Unfortunately, Kíli heard him and giggled, but Tauriel did also and in an act of mercy leaned over to kiss her new husband gently, effectively banishing any teasing for the next few hours.

But by that time, drunk as they were, it would be a miracle if Kíli even remembered to torture him. What, with the wine at the ceremony, and the ale at the toasts and the gold wine with the food, it was a wonder that most guests could even stand.

Though after the obligatory reels with Mam and Tauriel (not to mention Tilda, who flung herself at him excitedly before he could offer), he managed to distract Bard for long enough to allow Sigrid to sneak onto the terrace with a goblet of wine, Fíli following shortly after.

The light summer rain that had filled the hall with a golden light felt muggy and sticky outside, but framed the lush curve of her dark lips so nicely that he didn’t suggest that they relocate.

“I meant that, you know.” He found himself saying.

“What?”

“That I’m pleased to see you.”

“Oh good. If I thought you were simply being polite, I’d neck myself.” She deadpanned, making him giggle in a rather un-manly way.

From their position on the ground, they were nearly equal in height. If he wanted to, he could even--

Oh dear. He didn’t remember lifting his finger, but now he was stroking her cheek. It was a nice cheek, all smooth and curved, and pink from drink or dancing. No, it was getting weird. It was a really long stroke. Was there any sort of regulation for cheek stroking?

Abruptly pulling his hand away, he leaned back against the wall and stared resolutely into the pattering summer rain. After a slightly bewildered moment, he felt her shift beside him. He was about to apologise or go back inside and drink away his embarrassment when she spoke.

“They’re married now. That’s sweet, isn’t it?”

“All grown up.” He agreed. After a moment, she began to giggle.

“Do you remember, right after those orcs broke into our home? And I asked you about Tauriel? You looked so unhappy with it all!”

“Some elf swings along and my little brother began rambling about astronomy. I’d like to see you happy about it.”

“I don’t think you’ll have much luck getting rid of her now.”

“Wouldn’t want to.” He grunted, feeling about in his pocket for his pipe. “She’s… grown on me.”

“Hark at that.” She teased, sipping from the goblet and offering it to him.

The scent made his head spin a little, but he wasn’t about to be outdone by a daughter of men at his drink.

“She does look spectacular, though, doesn’t she?”

“You look lovelier.” He said, after a brief struggle.

When Dís had first arrived from Ered Luin, a few weeks before the wedding, following the fierce hug, smack about the head for nearly dying, and second smothering hug, he had put to her his intentions regarding Sigrid. She had winced and put forward all the complications she could think of (while in the background Thorin let out a wheezing noise at the thought of all of them marrying outside their race, and sank into a chair), before finally relenting to press her forehead to his and offer her blessing.

Kíli, on the other hand, had taken it upon himself to teach him how to flirt.

“Sigrid won’t just fall for that crap the people back in Ered Luin did.” He began. “You know, where you stare mysteriously off into the distance so you don’t have to try and be charming, and they swoon at your feet. You’re going to need to talk to her.”

“I’m going to murder you.” Fíli snapped, arms folded.

“Try complimenting her on something. Girls love that.”

“You realise,” Tauriel began, “that you asked me to search your trousers for weapons when we met.”

Having never heard this before, Fíli had almost collapsed with hysterical laughter, but now that he was here, and Sigrid was here, and he was looking for some way to tell her how hopelessly in love with her he had fallen (after one afternoon and countless letters) and ask her to consent to a lifelong commitment with him, he began to wish that he had listened to Kíli.

In response, she lifted her thumb to her mouth and began to worry the nail with her teeth. She had nice hands. Worn and callused from years of scrubbing and mending and cooking. Mapped like a storybook.

“How charmingly forward.” She said, after a long moment. “Nobody has been forward with me since we lived in Laketown.”

“Can I be more forward?” he asked, scrambling onto his knees so they were of equal height. Her brow furrowed slightly, but she did not stop him, so he stumbled on. “I- I don’t know what I’m doing. Kíli said I should- but the little sod is- oh, damnit. Um, what I’m trying to say is- bugger it!”

“Just think it through. I’ll listen to you.” She prompted gently. Her elder-sibling protectiveness shone through, then, making his face melt into what was probably an embarrassingly affectionate smile.

“Sigrid, I think you’re quite- quite wonderful. Very much so. Incredibly! Incredibly wonderful. You’re beautiful and clever and funny and you make my fingers feel like they’re on fire.”

She didn’t seem to question his phrase, and that she had understood made him have to force himself not to kiss her. Instead he shuffled forward and took the wine glass from her, placing it on the ground so he could intertwine their hands.

“I know we’ve spoken mostly through letters, but I love- uhm.“

“Yes?”

“I love you. From all the little corners of my soul, I’m in love with you.”

“Oh- oh, Fíli.”

“I wanted to make you a promise bead, but…”

She seemed to teeter for a moment, before gently pulling her fingers from his. He lurched forward a little, feeling like he was falling. Off a cliff, a balcony, the edge of the fortress on Ravenhill. Worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, she glanced up at him from her bowed head.

“Fíli that’s so- unexpected. Nice, but unexpected. You can’t just tell me you love me and then ask me to be your wife in three seconds.”

“Do you want me to ask you tomorrow?”

The corner of her lip twitched, and she rose to her feet, crossing to the railing to stare over the side of the battlements. It couldn’t have been long, the silence, no more than a few minutes, but the wine and the anxiety bubbling in his stomach made him impatient.

“Do you have an answer? Or something to say. Please, just say something.”

“I don’t know… you’ve given me a right blow from behind, here.”

“I thought you’d be less indecisive.” He found himself saying. It was too accusatory, but he couldn’t seem to stop his thick tongue from burbling. “You used to fancy me, when you were younger!”

“Yes, I was younger!” she snapped, turning to face him. “I was seventeen and you jumped in front of an orc to save me and my sister. Of course I had a fancy for you!”

“Then what’s changed?”

“Apf- where do I start? I didn’t see you for three years, we’ve only been good friends for a few months, and I have more than myself to think of here. I’m the Lady of Dale! I have my people to think of! Da hasn’t arranged anything- Da! He’d be eating grain out of the sack if I left him! Not to mention Tilda and Bain! I can’t just hightail up here and marry you!”

“But-“

“Stop it!” she exclaimed, pressing her knuckles to her cheeks and blinking back tears. Oh no, he’d made her cry. He’d sworn to himself that he’d protect her from all harm, and he’d gone and upset her like this. Shit. “Don’t pressure me to make a decision like this! Without my father’s knowledge, I can’t-“

With a warm gust of wind, rain began showering down on them, spattering in her hair and staining her gown with little dark dots. Against the golden, summer light, she looked like a tragic angel.

“You need to leave me alone.” She declared finally, striding past him. The full implication of what she was saying didn’t strike him for a moment, but when it did, he followed after her hastily, stumbling over his own feet.

“Sigrid, please-“

“No!” she shrieked, whirling around in a flurry of blue skirts, which kicked up and smacked him in the face.

She paused, silent for a long moment, before hurrying back into the hall, rain buffeting in her wake.

 

 

5.

 

“Hello.”

Her shoulders had been moving as she beat the scone dough into submission, but they froze when his voice sounded through the room. It was otherwise silent, but for the rain lashing down on the roof tiles.

“Da’s study is just off the hall.” Came her curt reply. His heart twisted to hear her so reserved, but he didn’t comment on it. She had a right to feel defensive, after all.

“I asked if he’d mind if I came in here to say hello to you. Been months.”

“He said you could- oh, I’ll kill him.”

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he bowed his head, letting his sopping braids fall into his face. He hadn’t thought to wear a hat, and when the heavens had opened up, the hood of his cloak had not stood up to the valiant downpour.

“You’ve no right to ambush me in my own home like this.”

“I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard from you all winter and after the way I acted the last time we spoke… I couldn’t bear to not try and make it right.”

She turned, leaning against the heavy wooden table she’d been working at. Her apron was streaked with flour and there was some in her hair as well, but even in her sage guardedness, she was beautiful. His heart skipped a beat in his chest, though it did little to aid his cause of being solemn and respectful.

“I didn’t reply to your letters… your apologies on purpose.” She supplied, finally.

“Oh.”

“I hope you were miserable all winter and Kíli teased you within an inch of your life.”

“You engineered that?” he exclaimed, unable to stop himself. In the face of her amusement, he contained his surprise. “It wasn’t so bad at first. Kíli and Tauriel didn’t come out of their halls until the start of autumn anyway.”

She bit back a giggle, pinching her lower lip between her teeth as she folded her arms. The embroidered needle lace of her gown was worn and the once rich blue was fading. He supposed it must be her work dress. Of course he’d fallen in love with her, in the end. She could have been half dwarf, with her elegance and her work ethic. But she seemed to bring a little more warmth with her wherever she went. Whether it was the low, croaky laugh she let out, or how she always seemed to be trudging through the rain, there was something uniquely her that made him smile. That made his words line up and his erratic communication flow.

“I thought you were different.” She said finally, her troubled gaze fixed on the flagstones at her bare toes. “Not like all those horrible boys that called for my hand.”

She turned her head to gaze at the glowing hearth, and he nearly cried out when he spotted a braid neatly drawn from her temple, back into the knot at the back of her head.

“You were… kind, and chivalrous, and brave. I never thought- that men would be like the handsome princes that Mam used to tell me about. The ones in the songs. But then a handsome prince literally popped out of my toilet, and it felt like something that was meant to be. It’s stupid, I know.”

“It’s not.” He murmured, stepping forward hesitantly. She let out a sharp, crack of a laugh, and shook her head.

“No, it is. What sort of marriage would it have made? If I’d said yes to your drunken ramblings at the wedding, I still didn’t know enough about you to distinguish you from the handsome prince. I’d have spent a while idolizing my husband, before realising that you were mortal, just as I was, and I’d probably come to resent you.”

Tauriel had kicked him in the stomach when they were sparring last week, but two sentenced from Sigrid hurt more.

“Don’t look like that.” She muttered finally, still staring into the hearth.

“Like what?”

“Like I’ve injured you. It’s the truth. I know you love me, and I know that I like you enough that in time, it could only grow into love. But with everything I have in me now, I can’t just marry you like that.”

She snapped her fingers to emphasise her point, and turned to face him. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, before reaching forward to cup the side of his face in her slender hand. He let his eyes flutter closed, savouring the sensation of her skin on his, her pulse beating steadily against his jaw.

“I need you to tell me again.” She whispered. “That you love me. Or I can’t let myself- I need you to tell me.”

Opening his eyes, he rested a hand on her wrist and took a step closer, letting the hem of her skirt brush his boot tips.

“I adore you, Sigrid, with everything I have in me. I love you so much that not being near you hurts like an anvil smashing into my chest, and the thought of losing you-- I can give you anything in the world, offer you gems and jewels, but I would promise to never let a day to by without making you feel as loved and cherished as you are in my heart.”

He did not move his eyes from her face as he brushed his lips against the inside of her wrist. He should have been embarrassed by the warmth pooling in his eyes, but couldn’t seem to make himself care.

“Alright.” She replied, her voice equally shaky, barely audible over the howl of the wind outside or the buffeting of water against the walls. “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“A year. That’s all I ask.”

“Of course. Anything.”

“If we see each other every fortnight, spend some time together, I’ll know you well enough to let you braid a promise bead into my hair.”

“Truly?”

“Yes.” She laughed, her voice wobbly with joy and tears. “You fool, yes.”

“And I will write to you every day.”

“Then I must write back too.”

It wasn’t proper, and had Bard walked in, he would probably have shoved Fíli out of a window, but the tears in Sigrid’s extraordinary grey eyes and the wide smile they shared made it impossible to shove her away when she leaned down and pressed her lips to his.

But it did make him quiver down to his boots.

 

 

+1

Their halls were one of the few with windows, meaning that when he slipped into their sitting room, he could see the droplets of water pelting against the glass.

“There you are. You were gone when I woke up this morning.”

He smiled as Sigrid unfurled herself from the sofa, the long braid he had worked into her hair the night before swinging against her dressing gown as she did.

“I’m sorry. I had to meet Dwalin and Ori. Are you feeling better?”

She rolled her eyes, but smirked a little and knelt down so he could press the back of his hand against her forehead. Still a little warm, but not as hot as it had been the night before. With a fond smile, he ran his fingers over the curls and dimples in her hair, before leaning down to kiss her. Deeply and luxuriously, she carded her fingers around his braids when they broke apart.

“Bad day?”

“No. Just long.”

Smiling, she reached up and pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose, before clambering to her feet and taking his hand. Leading him to the sofa she had vacated, she passed him the tankard of ale she had left waiting, and silently set about pulling off his boots. He sighed in relief and squeezed her hand, laughing when she playfully tugged one of his moustache braids. When she was done, she sat down beside him and picked up her book, wriggling under his outstretched arm and resting her head against his torso.

They sat curled together in silence, listening to the rain pounding on the windows and the fire crackle. Slowly, her breathing began to even out, and she lowered her book, until finally she began to snore gently against his jerkin. Sleeping before dinner would irritate her and probably embarrass her a bit too (it was a wife’s duty to prepare dinner, she would reason, cross at herself), though after pressing a careful hand to her forehead to check her temperature, he didn’t wake her as he usually would.

Instead he set his tankard down and pressed a soft kiss to the top of her forehead, before wrapping his arms around her and closing his eyes.

He had promised to make her feel loved every single day, and until his grave, he would do just that.


End file.
